


A Not So Wonderful Life

by LadyoftheSea



Series: Watching the World Burn [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Hurt, Introspection, Jealousy, Mild Sexual Content, Obsession, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21858298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheSea/pseuds/LadyoftheSea
Summary: The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.- Scott F. Fitzgerald
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Watching the World Burn [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1218531
Comments: 23
Kudos: 44
Collections: Bad Peeps in Love





	1. Silent Knight

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short three-part series that's set just after _Everything Burns_ with overlaps during the Joker's time in Arkham. While this is centred around the theme of the holidays, it ties in with the plot of the series. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> A big thank you to [Khaosprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaosprinz/pseuds/Khaosprinz) for all her amazing work beta-ing this for me! ❤

Bruce couldn't remember a winter night being so cold. Not since he had been five years old and his parents forwent their annual tradition of visiting the Old Gotham Christmas Village for staying inside the Manor, spending the night under a fort of blankets by their roaring fireplace. The holidays were often a busy time for the Waynes, and he enjoyed the times when his life was quiet, when there wasn't anyone—or anything—to take his family from him, to detract from the time and space that belonged to them alone. 

That winter night, something so precious but ephemeral—alive only in the frozen prism of memory—was one of the few he had with such clarity of the time _before_. Before his parents were gone, before his world shattered, before his shrinking family grew by one. He had lost his parents, but Kate Kane had had a daughter two months afterwards, and Bruce had someone to look after, a reason to try—even just a little bit—for someone so small. 

But now his family was as it had been that night while he waited, helpless and numb, in the cold, dark alley for someone to come, to rewind the present and keep his world whole, as a ten-year-old boy. He remembered the feeling of stiff cotton against his skin, the tailored hem of the tuxedo he never liked but loved anyway because of how it matched his father's. He remembered the smell of his mother’s perfume, how it filled his nose and made him sneeze. 

It was only him and Alfred now. Though they might be over twenty years older, the feelings hadn't changed, just the circumstances. 

That was when Bruce remembered that there _had_ been another night colder than this—it was in the weeks after Kate had died. It seemed fitting, how cold and barren the world was in the wake of a loss that immense. 

The more he thought about it, the less he wanted to give it his active attention. Even if it was the holidays, a brief window of time meant to heighten his connection to others but reminded him of how they didn't exist, Batman still had work to do. What day of the year it was didn't matter. He poured over the building plans in front of him, examining the Free Men’s stronghold. 

An admirable distraction though it was, it was also impractical. Alfred rarely gave Bruce what he wanted, but he almost always gave him what he needed. 

He could hear him descending in the elevator, the cables and pulleys creaking under the rigid cold and frost. Not turning around, he kept his attention studiously on the plans, comparing them to the schematics on his computer. 

“Will you spend the entire evening brooding, sir, or will you join me for dinner? Somehow, I made an abundance of turkey that we’ll be eating for the next fortnight—”

“Not now,” he said, cutting off the older man. 

Alfred might know what he needed but, at the moment, Bruce didn’t want to know it himself. As soon as he resolved to ignore the unwelcome nostalgia threatening to creep in, he smelled the fruits of Alfred’s labour. It was stuffing, Alfred’s signature garlic mashed potatoes, and the aforementioned turkey with cranberries—the same meal Alfred made every Christmas. Bruce’s stomach gave a loud growl of protest against his mind’s resolution. 

_Traitor,_ he thought. 

Alfred chuckled under his breath, stepping closer until the dinner was all Bruce could focus on. “Come along, Master Wayne. Gotham’s criminals will keep until tomorrow afternoon. Let the police do their work for once.” 

Sighing, Bruce rose from his chair, knowing he’d lost the battle the moment Alfred came with the tray. “Crime actually _increases_ during the holidays. They need me more than ever—”

“Now, sir, be reasonable. The rates have been much lower with Commissioner Gordon in charge. Surely they will not begrudge you taking Christmas Eve for yourself.” 

He wanted to say that it wasn’t only his work that made him not want to be in the Manor, but he remained silent. His hands shook, pulsing with pent-up energy and desperate for _some_ kind of release. He was a grown man—there were no children to keep the spirit of Christmas alive for, no one left to breathe life back into what was slowly dying. His parents’ house used to be a painful place, a constant reminder of what could never be. It wasn’t the Manor that he had missed while he was away but the people living in it. 

Alfred had forgone many of his usual traditions this year. No tree stood in the front hall, no tinsel decorated the wainscotting. The waves of cold swept into the house, and there was no fire to keep it warm. Bruce had requested that they didn’t observe the holiday—not in a visible way. Alfred agreed, but he clung more readily to tradition—remained eager to see something good manifest. 

But what good were they waiting for?

Shaking his head, he followed Alfred into the kitchen and the two sat at the island, silently eating the meal his old friend had made. The taste of it on his tongue, the smells in his nose—he realized it wasn’t only the people who made Wayne Manor home: It was the food and the hands that prepared it—the instant ability for it to transport him back in time. It took away the pain he couldn’t on his own when he sat, watching the life ebb from his parents and mix with the pools of mud-filled water behind the Monarch Theatre, and wished, more than anything, that it had been him that died instead. But, just like he had back then, he experienced it all in silence. 

Eating their dinner together became a shared moment of reverent quiet, both thinking of other times—anything besides the reality in front of them. He retreated into himself, going back to his small room in the mountain monastery. Breathing deeply, he took in the memory of incense and wet wood, knees aching as he knelt. Part of what he loved most, high above the world, was how nothing resembled what he knew in Gotham. Every day a new task, another step forward towards his coveted goal. 

The intrusion of something familiar brought him to a strange new place, blending past and present. Times when he had been a boy and Alfred made Christmas treats, and of sharing a small moment with Henri Ducard and the present incursion on his senses. As Alfred cleared away the dishes and set a small plate in front of him, Bruce picked up one of the small pastries, examining the small flecks of sugar atop and the sticky syrup lightly coating his fingers. 

_“A rare moment of indulgence I permit myself once a year,”_ Henri had said to him once. 

Bruce paid no mind to dates, months, or years when he was in Bhutan, only when the wind bit harder and when the ice would be too weak to take his weight. But not Henri— _Ra’s._ He was meticulous, always taking note and observing. 

_“They remind me of days long past. My grandmother would make them, and I’m afraid I was a poor student as a boy.”_

Henri had made mince pies, similar to the one Bruce now held in his hand. They were different from Alfred’s, less sweet, but they summoned the same memories nonetheless. Bruce would’ve spent the day meditating or otherwise training with the others—just as he did every other day—but that quiet moment, eating the small pies and thinking of home, made him forget why he was there. 

He remembered going back to his room, drawing the thick cotton curtains closed and lighting a small candle, the match licking the tips of his fingers. When he had left Gotham, he brought nothing with him other than the coat he bought off the homeless man outside Carmine Falcone’s bar and the clothes on his back. He had thrown his wallet into the fire, given his cash away, but inside had been a photograph he couldn’t make himself incinerate. He pulled it out then from the small carton of empty cigarettes he kept at the bottom of his bag, staring down at the faces of his family, and it was still quiet, always quiet, and thought of home. It had been folded and refolded dozens of times over those long seven years, and each time would bring an ache, more keen than the last. 

“You and Miriam used to devour those like starving wolves,” Alfred said, his voice dispersing the memory and dragging Bruce’s eyes upward. “She was too short to reach them when I’d store them on the high shelf, but you were always there to snatch them for her.” He laughed but it quickly turned sad, his eyes growing damp. 

He opened his mouth to speak, to comment on the story, to add his own anecdote, but could summon no sound. All he wanted to do was take Alfred’s hand, to give some semblance of reassurance, to let him know he felt the same. 

He looked down again and found himself back in that cold puddle, the stiff cotton of his dress shirt brushing against the small hairs, breathing in his mother’s perfume, feeling that tickle form in his nose, and watched as scarlet bled down, soaking his pants and coating his skin, tainting the air with the thick smell of rust. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK - so I _really_ thought that these short pieces would be more cheery, but it seems I'm incapable of writing happiness. Lol. 
> 
> On a serious note, though - the holidays aren't always a happy time for people. We paint it as being that way, though, don't we? But while they _can_ make us feel closer to the people around us, it can also be a time when we feel most lonely. Loneliness is something I've always struggled with, and sometimes - even if it's not anyone's intention - the holidays make it worse because I so rarely _do_ feel connected and like I belong. 
> 
> I wanna thank [JohnJoestar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnjoestar/pseuds/johnjoestar) for his request to include something from Bruce's time training with Ra's al Ghul! 
> 
> I'll leave the other two installation's themes a mystery, but you'll have those coming your way (hopefully) on the 23rd and 24th, and the new chapter of _Desolation_ will either be out later tonight or late Monday afternoon. :) Stay safe out there, and I hope there are moments of happiness and good times happening for all of you. I appreciate every single one of you, and thanks for reading! ❤


	2. Can't Take Your Eyes Off Me

Christmas was never a time of year I particularly enjoyed. 

Mom didn’t believe in organized religion and thought the holidays were some kind of capitalist scheme, and I had no idea what Jahan did or didn’t do—he seemed pretty selective about what tenets of Islam he followed from the little I remembered. Bruce thought about it the same as I did: as a time of year that only emphasized our loneliness, filled to the brim with stress and obligatory visits with forced friendliness and joviality. 

It was Alfred that had us forming a string of traditions, specific to us and all our own. He’d have a line-up of old movies that he’d watch, and Bruce and I would make the effort to join him—even if we did roll our eyes the whole way through. Alfred used to tell me stories about the Christmas mornings he had back in England as a boy, that wonder of being surrounded by people he loved, sharing food and stories as a form of irreplaceable bonding. I remember wanting that so badly, and I think Bruce wanted it, too. He never talked about the few holidays he had with his parents; that would always be an area of his life I could only grasp at without understanding entirely. 

Even though Mom didn’t believe in it, we celebrated anyway. _“The wrapping might look the same, but the contents are different,”_ is how she would explain it to me later, after Alfred convinced her to divorce the commercial from what we had made. I didn’t really care about the holiday itself, only that it was an excuse to have two consecutive weeks running around the Manor with Bruce, Mom wasn’t away working, and I could pretend school didn’t exist. 

Winter became ephemeral to me. Only a week shy of Christmas, it felt like I’d been born in the wrong month—sharing an affinity with the sun, with warmth and burning heat, than to the frigid cold. So, they became dreams—fragile places of escape that would melt away by the time I noticed them. 

This Christmas wouldn’t be any different. 

I can smell the food long before I reach the kitchen, and my stomach growls in anticipation. Alfred’s been baking, and the smell of ginger is always what I associate with home. 

“Be honest,” I say to Alfred when I walk up behind him, attempting to smile and adjusting the pins keeping the thick strands of hair from falling into my face, “does this look—do _I_ look… ridiculous?” 

I’m wearing a dress, and I almost never wear those this time of year, that goes just above my knee. It’s a deep scarlet, and it shows more of my chest than I’d like, but I bought it just for tonight. When I try to think of why, the reason doesn’t come. Where the memory should be, I find static instead. I adjust the fabric, trying to get it to sit in a way that doesn’t make me feel self-conscious. 

Alfred laughs, haphazardly wiping the flour coating his hands on a wet dishcloth before turning his attention to me. He’s wearing his infamous Christmas sweater—the ugly green one with reindeer and hand-stitched flecks of snow. Seeing him in it lessens the nerves skipping under my skin. “You look lovely, Miriam. Don’t fuss so much—he’s going to love it, I’m sure.” 

“Wait, ‘he’?” 

He smiles wryly; it tells me I’m missing something. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten which guests you invited, my dear. Bruce and Rachel will be here shortly and Parker will be joining us.”

 _Parker_. 

Finding more static, I can’t remember when I invited him—or even what he said in reply. My confusion is replaced with quiet excitement. _That’s_ why I must’ve gotten the dress—it’s for Parker. Hearing Rachel’s name triggers a sort of… feeling I can’t pinpoint, but I push it away. The heat of the kitchen becomes more intense, mirroring the growing warmth in my chest. It’s so warm that it begins to burn. 

The doorbell resounds through the Manor, echoing and bouncing off the walls to ring in my ear. It’s louder than it usually is—like there isn’t anything to absorb the sound. The walls melt and blur, and the heat and smells of the kitchen give way to the seeping cold of the front hall. My feet are bare—but I could’ve sworn I was wearing shoes—and they stick to the white marble, almost freezing me in place.

The bell sounds again, making me jump. My hand reaches for the door handle twice before dropping to my side. It’s like my skin’s hardening, joints seizing up. Every time I move, it gets a little worse.

_Why don’t I want to open it?_

Only when the bell rings a third time do I force myself to sweep the door open, my dress a poor shield against the cold and turning my fingers nearly purple. 

“Parker—”

There’s no one on the other side, just an empty stoop, biting wind, and the black void of night for me to greet. The static crackles in my ear, snapping and popping like oil on a scalding fry pan. 

“Thought you were gonna leave me to get frostbite for a minute.” 

Muffling a shout, I spin and the door slams closed. Parker’s standing behind me, slouching with that lazy grin of his. He pops an eyebrow and smirks. 

“Almost like you weren’t expecting me or something.” 

Something’s… wrong. 

_Is it?_

“No—no, that’s…” I trail off, unsure of what to say. His hair is down, a rare sight, and he’s not wearing a jacket despite the weather. “Why wouldn’t I be expecting you?” I try to brush the feeling in my stomach away with a laugh, but it turns more into a hesitant chuckle. 

“You tell me, sweet peach.” 

Shards of ice work their way under my skin, piercing my veins and freezing solid. 

“What… what did you call me?” I whisper. 

Parker traipses away, acting like he didn’t hear me, and heads for the ornate front staircase, decorated with long ropes of white Christmas lights, that branches off to the great hall, the bedrooms, and the guest wing. His black hair, normally pin-straight, is twisted into loose curls, and the light makes it look nearly blond. Something isn’t right. 

_What’s wrong then?_

Nothing. I find more static where the thought should be. 

He’s almost… _waltzing_ up the stairs, every movement alive with energy and verve. 

“Are you coming?” 

His voice snaps me out of the daze but leaves edges of the world just out of focus. Turning, I look for Alfred, but the Manor is quiet. The smell of ginger is gone. The room expands, growing until it feels like it might swallow me. 

“Hey.” 

His hand, burning like a hot ember, catches my arm. Without knowing why, I draw away but Parker stays close. 

“C’mon,” he says, nodding towards the stairs. 

I keep trying to walk backward, but it’s like I’m frozen again. “Why do you want to go up there? Alfred’s in—”

“No, he isn’t.” Parker’s tongue swipes along his bottom lip, voice uncharacteristically deep. I don’t have an answer to contradict him, no line of reasoning in my head as to why he’s wrong. He gently tugs me along, his touch warming my skin. 

“Oh,” I breathe, looking around for something familiar. The pressure on my arm increases and I ignore the objects blurring in the foyer, moving out of sight as the stairs elongate ahead of us. My head clears, wiped clean and I can’t tell what I was meant to hang onto. “It’s… just us then?”

He walks backwards, giving me a lopsided grin I’ve never seen on his face before. “Yep. Just you and me.” 

His grip goes from my arm to my hand, pulling me with him. The carpet, once plush but worn down after years of visitors, pushes between my toes. Fallen tinsel and glitter line the path, but, somehow, it manages to scrape the bottom of my feet rather than dispel the touch of frost from the marble. When we get to the landing, the lopsided grin is still there, but it changes. I don’t know how, but it does. Taking my hand away, I pull into myself, circling my arms around my waist. 

“Parker, maybe we should—”

“Catch me if you can, Mir-cat,” he interrupts, his voice still that deeper pitch as he ducks into the first door on my left, shutting the door behind him. 

“Hey, that’s not—”

But he’s gone. Sighing, I follow behind, my steps tentative and slow. When I open the door, I almost expect him to be on the other side waiting to scare me. He isn’t, but that means I have to keep looking. 

“This—this isn’t funny,” I say to the empty room, breathing in dust and stale air. 

“Sure it is.” 

_It’s coming from the other side of the wall._

Opening the next door, this one leading into a side hall, guest bedrooms and billiard rooms or something like that line either side. The hall feels too long; there are too many places to check. Uncertainty becomes a ball in my stomach, weighing me down and making it hard to swallow. Zaps tingle and run up my spine, alerting me that someone’s watching. 

“Parker?” 

I try the third door on the right, and it opens to a small powder room. The sound of footsteps makes me flinch and spin around—my heart hammering hard against my ribs—just in time to watch a tall figure dart across the hall into another room, the door closing behind him with a soft _click._

“Gotta keep _trying,_ Miri _.”_ Everything goes quiet until all I hear is the blood thundering in my ears. "You're not very, ah… _good_ at this, are you?" 

Even though I saw him go into the room at the end of the hall where I started, it sounds like he’s behind me. I jump again, shoulders hunching as I spin in place—searching for a glance of him. 

“Seriously, Parker—stop playing around.” My voice shakes and I grit my teeth, anger replacing the intense uncertainty. When he laughs, I decide I’ve had enough. “Fuck this,” I whisper to myself, storming off to go somewhere quiet and unwilling to play whatever game this is meant to be. 

The hall twists and turns, looping around in a labyrinth of doors and forking paths. Soon, it’s like my legs don’t move at all, I glide across the floor, going faster and faster until it all merges into one. It becomes a rollercoaster, the force of it pressing against my chest—increasing until it hurts to breathe. 

Just when I think I can’t take anymore, it stops, slamming to a standstill like I hit a wall. Instead of falling, I’m at a green door, the colour of old pine, and it’s almost… humming. Reaching for the golden handle, it swings open—almost skimming my nose—before my fingers even touch the metal. 

It’s my room. I’m not sure why I was expecting anything different, but it’s cleaner than it usually is. No clothes litter the floor and you can actually see the top of my desk. The door shuts so quietly that I barely hear it, but an involuntary scream rips out of me when an arm is slung over my shoulders.

“Oh, come on—you’re taking all the fun outta Christmas," the voice scolds. 

Shoving him away, he holds up his hands in deference. But… something's changed. His hair is still in loose curls around his ears, eyes dark brown, but he's more broad shouldered, maybe even an inch taller than before, his jaw sharp and angular. It's almost like it's not the same person at all. 

"What? I got something on my face?" he asks, going over to the closest mirror and examining his reflection. 

Something white, green, and red reflects back in a form I can't make out, and the ice returns until I blink and he's standing in front of me, the strange thing in the mirror is gone. The static gets louder, warping the walls of my room, the wallpaper alive with writhing worms beneath it. They're working their way down, reaching the carpet and— 

"Hey, earth to Miri, anybody home?" he says, snapping his fingers in front of my eyes. The static and worms disappear, but the feelings I can't name don't. "You’re acting like I'm chopped liver or something. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that, ah… you were _confusing_ me with someone else." His eyes droop and he sucks on the inside of his cheek, mulling on it. The energy changes, and finally something breaks through the white noise. 

“Where’s Parker?” 

His face blanches, the grin disappearing. I see danger in his eye, how they gleam like black obsidian. Smacking his lips, he says, “Parker _who?”_

The clarity I find degenerates, breaking apart no matter how hard I hold onto it. 

_Parker, Parker, Parker—_

“Stop—stop fooling around. This—it’s not a knock-knock joke.” My voice shakes, and the man walks closer to me, bringing more of that energy from before. It radiates from him, dark and crackling. The further I move away, the closer he gets. 

“You don’t seem to have much of a sense of _humour_ at all, sweet peach.” It’s not until my back hits the wall that I realize I’m out of room. He’s smiling again, but that edge never leaves. “Why are you acting like this _now?_ You’d think I was a total stranger!” 

He’s… acting like he knows me. 

_Maybe he does._

What was I holding onto before? 

“I guess…” Even though there’s a sharp edge in his eye, I don’t feel afraid, only confused. I bite my lip, trying to remember and failing. “I don’t know what I think.” 

“Good thing you’ve got _me_ then.” As soon as it was there, the edge is gone. He’s smiling widely, flashing rows of straight teeth, and my chest gets warm again. His head tilts to the side, grin turning smug. “I’ll do the thinking for both of us.” 

_You're just too good to be true  
_ _I can't take my eyes off you_

My brows draw together, and before I can think of something to say, I notice that something’s replaced the static. It has… trumpets, I think—a beating drum. 

_You'd be like heaven to touch  
_ _I wanna hold you so much_

Whatever I was going to say leaves my head as the beat gets louder. “This doesn’t sound very ‘Christmassy’.” I find myself smiling, too—looking off for the source before he steps back in my line of sight, swaying to the music. “What happened to Tchaikovsky, or Mariah Carey, or… whatever it is you’re supposed to listen to at this time of year?” 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes and slapping a hand against his forehead in exasperation, but the smile tells me it’s playful. “Oh—you’re _hopeless_ , you know. Almost think you didn’t know _anything_ about Christmas.” 

_At long last love has arrived  
_ _And I thank God I'm alive_

But… there is _something_ when I think of it. Flashes of watching black and white movies, cheesy music and plots where everything always turned out alright, fuzzy blankets and eating sweets until I felt sick. 

_You're just too good to be true  
_ _Can't take my eyes off you_

“Anything can sound like Christmas music in the right context,” he says, interrupting where my mind has wandered to. He leans down and picks up a red Santa hat from somewhere and plops it on his head. His grin is goofy and I can’t help but laugh. 

“You look ridiculous,” I snigger.

“I think _dignified_ is the answer you’re looking for.” He spins, making the pom-pom dance around his head. 

_Pardon the way that I stare  
_ _There's nothing else to compare_

I laugh again, but the noise dies in my throat when the thing from the mirror transposes over the man in front of me. It’s only for a second, a brief moment, but its ghost lingers when my eyes close. 

_The sight of you leaves me weak  
_ _There are no words left to speak_

“What?” he asks, grin disappearing. I walk past him and stare at the objects in the room, unsure of what I’m looking for. Each piece is arranged carefully, and nothing I look at brings an echo of familiarity. 

_But if you feel like I feel  
_ _Please let me know that is real_

“Oh, I’m just… I think Parker’s still—”

He grabs my biceps, fingers digging into the muscles, and shakes me once. The thought slips away, and I’m confronted with his anger. Fear and confusion find me; I can’t even remember what I was going to say. 

“Why are you talking about _him_ when _I’m_ right here?” 

I’m against the wall again, and the pressure in his grip builds until I wince. 

_You're just too good to be true  
_ _I can't take my eyes off you_

“Haven’t you heard that _little_ phrase about talking to your, ah… _partner_ about other men?” He laughs, but it’s bitter and bordering on a snarl. It makes me flinch, and he leans in, making the music go quiet until it’s a murmur. His eyes are mean—like burning black coal. _“Something_ along the lines of _‘dance with the one who brought you’?”_

“I—” An arc sears down my sternum, splitting the skin and stealing the air from my throat. It scorches a path down, hooking under my breast, hot like liquid nitrogen. The words won’t come, I’m not sure which ones I’m even looking for, but dread and pain and panic push against my chest. “I—I didn’t mean—” 

_I love you baby  
_ _And if it's quite all right  
_ _I need you baby_

His face softens, his grip easing until it’s like he meant to embrace me all along. Chuckling lowly, he pushes my hair over my shoulders, his fingertips brushing against my neck. 

_To warm the lonely nights  
_ _I love you baby  
_ _Trust in me when I say_

“Oh, _come on,_ sweetheart. _Lighten up.”_ I feel whiplashed, uncertain of what just happened and what caused it, but I don’t want it to happen again. When I nod, he kisses my cheek, and the pleasant warmth returns. “Speaking of dancing…” Turning mischievous, his hands take mine and pull me close. Swaying us to the beat, he starts to hum. 

_Oh pretty baby  
_ _Don't bring me down I pray  
_ _Oh pretty baby_

“I don’t really know—know how,” I say, my feet stumbling as he moves us into a slow dance. The room around us disappears, darkening the periphery and leaving an infinite expanse. 

_Now that I've found you stay  
_ _And let me love you, baby  
_ _Let me love you_

“That’s why you’ve got _me_. We’ve done this before, don’t you remember?” 

_You're just too good to be true  
_ _I can't take my eyes off you_

He seems so much more assured than I am, certain where I’m lost. I have nothing to contradict him, so I say nothing, letting him pull me along and trying to match his steps. His breath is on my neck, and I’m so warm that the world takes on a haze that joins the static. 

_You'd be like heaven to touch  
_ _I wanna hold you so much_

“My head—maybe I’m just… tired.” That makes sense, doesn’t it? Nothing else comes, no other reason to explain why my chest melts into his, why my head’s on his shoulder. 

_At long last love has arrived  
_ _And I thank God I'm alive_

“Don’t worry. I’ll wake you up soon.”

 _You're just too good to be true  
_ _Can't take my eyes off You_

He winks and I shiver. One of his hands leaves mine, trailing down my spine to rest at the small of my back. 

_I love you baby  
_ _Trust in me when I say  
_ _Oh pretty baby_

We keep dancing and, eventually, the static fades. This feels… nice. There’s something else if I dig a little further, something I’m supposed to remember, but I don’t want to. It’s just us and the music, and I don’t want that to change. 

_Don't bring me down I pray  
_ _Oh pretty baby_

He starts to sing—it’s loud and purposely off-beat—and he exaggerates the movements of the dance, swinging us around. It isn’t long before I start giggling. 

_Now that I've found you stay  
_ _Oh pretty baby  
_ _Trust in me when I say_

He joins in, wrapping me in his arms. I’m about to pull away when he leans back until he starts to fall, taking me with him. I shriek when my stomach climbs up my throat, and I grip his chest hard. 

It only lasts a moment, and the landing is softer than I expect—almost like the fall didn’t happen. He’s still holding me, but I’m on top of him, my thighs on either side of his. I don’t feel like laughing anymore. His touch is scorching, like getting too close to the sun, and I try to move off him but he keeps me in place, his hands spread across my ribs. 

“Miri, Miri, Miri…” He has that gentle smile on his face again, like it’s only ever been him and me. He takes a deep breath that I feel in my own lungs, and his hands leave my back, trailing up until they’re touching my neck. “What would I do without you?”

The motion is… comforting. His thumbs tracing my jaw. They call to me, beckoning me to fall asleep. 

_No, don’t do that yet._

My eyes feel heavy, and I almost think I see that green and red form again, but it’s gone in the time it takes to register. 

_Think._

“How long have we been… doing this for?” He looks at me in confusion, head tilting to the side and his fingers freezing. “I don’t know. _This.”_

He laughs, but I don’t think he finds what I said funny. “Someone smack you on the head? Your memory’s, uh… leaving a _lot_ to be desired.” 

His face changes. His smile splits, going from the corners of his mouth until it reaches the middle of his cheeks. As I watch them form, I feel that burning on my chest again, like a knife being dragged against the bone. 

I know what’s wrong. I know why _this_ is wrong. This isn’t right. 

“Doesn’t matter anyway, does it? It’s just… you and me.” 

But… he’s warm. He feels like home. Like the home where I belong. There’s no one to hurt here. 

Pulling me close, I lean against him, my chest flush with his. His hands run through my hair, lightly tracing the peaks of my spine. The urge to close my eyes, to breathe him in and sink a little lower, is all that fills my mind. 

_“You and me.”_

I sit up and stare at that, searching his eyes. They aren’t black anymore. They’re almost ginger—earthy and warm. His thumb brushes along my cheekbone and I lean in and kiss him. The motion is almost involuntary—I don’t even know why I’m doing it—but I don’t want to stop, either. He returns it immediately, his hands going from gentle to biting, holding me like I might float away. 

The static grows louder, but I don’t want to leave. I can’t remember anything else and it’s better that way. My tongue meets his, our teeth biting and pulling. There’s pain, but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing here hurts. Nothing will hurt me. 

“You just have to _let go,”_ he breathes, pulling back and resting his forehead against mine. I go to kiss him again, but he holds me in place, eyes boring into mine. 

“Let go?” I repeat against his lips, eyes still heavy. 

He nods, and the smile he gives enraptures me. “Let it all go.” 

I suddenly remember another reason I don’t like Christmas. How could I have forgotten? Mom died just three weeks shy of the twenty-fifth. The memory sears through my head, bringing a flood with it. 

He picks me up, hands going under my thighs, and I land on something soft. Hovering over me, staring at him as he takes away everything else, pushes the pain to where it can’t reach me. My dress bunches up around my hips, and I hold him as hard as he’s holding me. His hands touch my bare stomach, and I don’t want him to stop. 

This time, he kisses me. It’s fierce. It buries the past. It consumes me. 

The static rises until its resonance shakes the world, arcing through me as a voice pierces my ears.

_“You see, Miriam, you've really had a wonderful life. Don't you see what a mistake it would be to just throw it away?”_

* * *

It’s with a violent shudder that I wake up, bolting upright and falling off the couch in the process. Chest heaving and face wet with tears, my cell phone’s losing its mind. It’s ringing so loudly that I don’t know how it didn’t wake me sooner. Hands shaking so badly that I almost drop it, I look at the caller ID.

_Alfred. He called me… eight times? Shit._

I know I should answer, but the remnants of the dream don’t leave. A bottle of vodka and a spilled glass of Coke rest on my coffee table, and _It’s a Wonderful Life_ plays quietly in the background. I remember turning the TV to some random channel, I didn’t want to watch any Christmas movies, it hurt too much, and seeing it makes me sob. 

_Why did they have to play Alfred’s favourite movie?_

Why does anything happen? Why didn’t I drink enough to not dream at all? 

My head’s screaming, but I can’t dream like that again. No matter how much I try, it sticks with me—the feeling of his hands, that kind of warmth, feeling like… like— 

_No._ No. 

Hands still shaking, I shove the alcohol away, wringing my hands in my hair and trying to remember how to breathe. Sleep won’t come. I won’t let it. And maybe it’s better that I never fall asleep again. 

_But… you know that’s impossible, don’t you?_

Nails digging into the skin so hard that small spots of blood warm my fingertips, I try to find that place where I can forget alone. I don’t find it and discover a war instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who like to dabble in dream symbolism, this will be a treat for you. I embedded _lots_ that just might crop up later... :o Much of this symbolizes the sort of journey Miri endured in _Everything Burns,_ where she had to struggle to find and maintain her sense of self while everything crumbled. Her life _would've_ been easier if she gave up, if she sunk in the ways that the Joker wanted her to, and it has a lot of pulls that she doesn't know how to rationalize. This theme especially is something you'll see throughout _Desolation_. 
> 
> A big thanks to [clv44](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clv44/pseuds/clv44) for the dream idea!❤ Sorry it's not quite what you requested, but the inspo ended up taking me on a bit of a different path 😅. And another thanks to Boag for all her advice! 
> 
> The next part is coming soon, so keep an eye out and Happy Holidays! :)


	3. In Every Dream Home A Heartache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder, this short series takes place about eight weeks after the end of _Everything Burns_. That means that Joker isn't in Strange's 'treatment plan' yet and is still wrangling with how things ended for him. And, because this is him, a lot of those feelings are dark and incredibly twisted (and apparently so am I. Lol.) I also failed in making this less depressing, sorry, everyone 😅.

It wasn’t until he sneezed six times in a row that the Joker conceded that he  _ might  _ have a cold. Just maybe. 

_ Haven’t been outside in weeks and my nose turns into a faucet.  _ Someone  _ needs to have a chat with maintenance. _

He had an idea about what kind of  _ chat _ it would be. Most of them revolved around setting whoever it was on fire and roasting some marshmallows over their burning corpse.

_ That's right. Think  _ warm  _ thoughts.  _

His room was always freezing—he was certain they were doing it on purpose—and the itchy wool blankets were thin and scratched at him. He had slept rough plenty before, but at least he could keep moving or rob a goddamn pharmacy. In Arkham, he was at the mercy of the doctors and whatever mystery drug cocktail they wanted to give him that day. The Joker wouldn’t complain to them.

_ Never.  _

As if to contradict him, his body went from violent shivering to breaking out in a sweat, his muscles aching and burning until it felt like a concerted effort just to be alive. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this miserable. 

_ Wait a minute…  _

Sitting up with a groan, he pulled up the hem of his shirt. The gouge between his ribs hadn’t healed well—he hadn’t let it, what with the constant picking and opening his various wounds so often they had to cut his nails to the quick just to keep him from making them worse. Now it looked red and inflamed; an angry, weeping line that went deep under the skin. The Joker wasn’t a doctor— _ says you— _ but he was  _ pretty  _ sure it wasn’t supposed to look like that. 

_ Ah, well. Live and learn.  _

Except, he had a feeling that it  _ just  _ might be infected—not like the pus was a dead giveaway or anything; he just couldn’t bring himself to care one way or another. Each time it throbbed he remembered how he got it—how it had felt when the glass punctured the skin and tore through the muscle. The bruises and broken bones Bats had so  _ generously  _ given him had healed— _ despite my  _ best  _ efforts— _ so he had to have  _ something  _ to keep the memory of what happened alive. Spite remained one of his key motivators. 

He’d been in Arkham for eight weeks, and the decorations—all plastic ornaments and a noticeable absence of any stringed lights with which he could wring someone’s neck—in the mess hall and rec room were constant reminders of the approaching holiday.  __

He laughed to himself but it quickly descended into hacking coughs that rattled his brain against its skull. His throat raw and the cycle turning once again, all semblance of heat left him, making the sweat cold against his clammy skin. His hair damp and stuck to his head, and he would've given someone's right hand for a hot bath. Being shoved into one of the  _ Personal Safety Rooms  _ to stew by himself for a week made the possibility of any of that happening slim. 

Still. He couldn’t bring himself to regret slamming  _ Johnny’s  _ head against the table. 

_ Spoilsport.  _

But, the Joker was creative. He might be trapped within an institution guilty of  _ several  _ human rights violations in a tiny, empty white-walled cell with no sunlight, a bad cold and a hankering urge for murder, but he could keep himself entertained. He was a big boy— _ well, maybe on the outside— _ he didn't  _ need  _ someone to come read him a bedtime story, nurse him back to health. His imagination would be enough. Things were fresh enough that it would last him until he broke out to make some new _ , better  _ memories. Ones not encumbered with a  _ certain  _ someone  _ ruining everything.  _

It was almost Christmas, right?  _ Christmas.  _ Joker's  _ favourite _ holiday. There was something about all that glitter, a fat, geriatric man breaking into people's houses, the added emphasis on  _ cheer  _ and  _ smiling— _ oh, how he  _ loved  _ a good smile—how everything outside was dead already  _ (and ripe for burning), _ and just how damn  _ easy _ it was to ruin someone's day, take something simple and  _ jolly  _ and spin it on its head. 

And, well. He'd be lying if he denied liking snow, the fluffier the better—that, and the cold helped keep the makeup in place longer. 

With a sneeze that made him think it would take his lungs with it, another onslaught of boiling shivers and frequent sniffling made him curl in on himself, hoping if he became small enough it would make things hurt less. For the umpteenth time, he wiped his nose on his sleeve, not that he cared— _ he  _ wasn’t the one doing the laundry. They’d be burning his clothes if he recovered from what he was sure was the plague anyway. 

_ What do you mean ‘if’?!  _

He’d slept more in the last two days than he had in the last year, but he let his mind wander, let the fever dreams lead him down the tinsel-lined path to somewhere else. 

It was a house that waited for him at the end of the path, one nestled in some quiet neighbourhood with a roof blanketed in a plush layer of snow. It crunched under his feet as his weight packed it down, and sticky and heavy flecks fell in his hair. Instinctively, he knew this was his house. A one-storey with white wood panelling and a green door, Christmas lights covering every edge and blinking bright, a large wreath hanging from the door, and blood-red mistletoe like bleeding gunshot wounds—all that was missing was a sign declaring the place  _ his. _

He didn’t even need to touch the door, it opened as soon as he walked up the winding path and stepped on the front stoop. You’d think that, even in his own imagination, his place of dwelling would be more on the  _ fancy  _ side, but, what could he say, he liked a more rustic look. The furniture ratty, stuffing popping out of the seams and only missing the exposed springs to cross over into cliché territory, wallpaper peeling in chunks to show the wood underneath missing chunks of plaster, the Joker let out a sigh of contentment.

_ At least I can breathe better in my head.  _

“Oh, you’re home?” a voice called. It came from the room beyond the living space, somewhere in the kitchen. But, who was it? 

_ It’s  _ your  _ dream, ain’t it?  _

He hadn’t expected to share the space—both in his head and here—but he decided to roll with it, entertaining himself with wondering who to play  _ House  _ with. 

A litany of faces rotated in his mind. They were familiar, but distant in a way that he wouldn't be able to tell anyone how he knew them if asked. It amused him, how many faces and bodies and personalities he could think of, what they’d do and just how naughty or nice he wanted to be. With each new face, the house around him would alter ever so slightly, reflecting the changes in characteristics he conceived. It was fun, sometimes even  _ hilarious.  _ He almost didn’t know who to pick. 

But then something stuck. 

Just as he couldn’t get rid of her in his waking hours, she infiltrated his daydreams. With that wide array to choose from, the ones he thought of harder to materialize, they inevitably morphed into Miriam. 

The  _ Ruiner  _ was looking to ruin this, too. 

He tried not to feel angry about the incursion—this  _ was _ a self-indulgent endeavour, after all. He could still have fun with his little sweet peach. 

_ It's all about the  _ fantasy,  _ after all.  _

Ah, what could it hurt? His rage made him warm and thinking of the cold soothed the fire cooking his insides. 

He let his brain settle, didn’t resist or fight the image of her materializing. Hair pulled up and away from her face to expose her neck, eyes green and shining, she appeared in front of him smiling. With her came a change in decorations. The Joker now found a Christmas tree in the corner of his eye, branches heavy with large purple glass ornaments and dancing golden trinkets, and the room lit-up with string after string of multi-coloured, blinking bulbs. Neat little boxes sat under the tree, wrapped in purple and green paper and topped off with orange bows. The house tidied itself, patching the holes in the walls and fixing the rips and tears in the paper. Frames on the walls held photos: one of him and Miriam smiling and giving peace signs, one with him giving Batman a noogie and another with Batman looking especially stoic with a Santa hat on his head. He liked that one the best. 

“Yeah, I’m home,” he finally replied, his own grin growing wider. 

She laughed and it was music. 

Something like mania took over—transforming his newfound world with each shake of the snowglobe they were trapped inside. 

Music erupted in his ears—Tchaikovsky and Beethoven and the Platters—and it gave everything a brighter hue. They suddenly wore thick parkas and throwing snowballs at each other, giggling in hysterics when one would hit the other in the face. He’d sneak up behind her to throw her in a deep bank only for her to wriggle around and push him in instead. He summoned sleds and they raced down hill after hill, never having to climb up to get back to the top to go for another round. He’d try to do tricks to impress her and fail, falling on his face or his ass, and only succeed in making her burst out laughing. He found himself OK with that outcome, too. 

Even his dream wasn’t immune from the passage of time. The darkness fell across the sky, chasing away the sun and dragging the moon with it. His nose ran from the cold, but looking at Miriam made him warm. That didn’t stop him from making a giant bonfire, if only to set something on fire and watch the ice melt. Then, they were inside, unwrapping their presents—gifts varying from C4 to fuzzy cat slippers and new kitchen knives that  _ wouldn't  _ be used for cooking and batsymbol pyjamas. 

They were laughing and he didn’t even know about what, just that he liked this playful sort of fun even if knives weren’t actively involved, when everything became a flurry of movement, a barrage of activities that blurred together. The Joker enjoyed all of them—revelling in the simple joy of it, feeling lighter than he had since his admission to Arkham. He didn’t want it to end, he didn’t want to wake up. 

_ But all good things come to an end, don’t they?  _

And this ended in a manner he didn’t anticipate. 

The scenes of white and red, smiles and giggles, flames and crackling wood, ripped up wrapping paper and various toys ended in a blink. He was back in a far corner of the house—the bedroom. 

Miriam wasn’t wearing a parka anymore, she was just in an oversized  _ Warpaint  _ t-shirt and sitting on the edge of the bed. She smiled, looking up at him from under thick eyelashes and patting the empty space beside her. That’s when he noticed he wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore either—just a pair of jogging pants. 

_ Huh.  _

He decided to obey, sitting close and tugging her down playfully by a lock of hair. She fell with him flat on the mattress, giggling as they both rolled on their sides to face one another. The music playing in the background disappeared; all became quiet. 

He didn’t trust it for a minute. 

Her smile turned shy. She curled her legs up and tried to hide her face behind a small lump in the purple comforter. 

“What?” he asked, pushing down the fabric. She smiled wider, rolling onto her back and sneaking glances out of the corner of her eye. He moved closer, half leaning over her and trapping her between his arms so she couldn’t keep hiding from him. “C’mon, don’t make me guess.” He tried laughing, but something in his chest ached. 

_ It’s all the coughing. Hacking up your insides ain’t exactly  _ pleasant. 

Her black hair fanned out beneath her, and the smile slowly disappeared from her face. “What do you dream about, J?” she asked. 

Drawing back, he made his smile stay in place. “Well, uh,  _ this _ apparently.”

“No, no,” she chided, reaching up to tug softly on one of his curls. “More than this. What are your dreams?” 

He moved away from her like she hit him, dropping back onto the mattress and staring up at the popcorn ceiling. 

“Well, I… don’t know.” His mind was empty and he kept it that way. He didn’t like this line of thought—it lead down a path he didn’t want to follow, one lined with broken glass. 

“Everyone dreams.” Her head rested on his shoulder, fingers tracing small, indiscernible patterns on his chest. They made his heart skip. 

“Yeah. I guess.  _ Technically,” _ he conceded, still unable to look at her. She didn’t give him a choice, propping herself up to search for an answer like he had a moment before. He didn’t appreciate being on the receiving end.  __ “I, ah… well—this. A house. Long time ago.” 

“Then why are you dreaming it now?” 

Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. It didn’t even sound like it came from her mouth but started from a murmur in his own brain. His heart skipped for a different reason. 

“Don’t know.” 

He did, but he didn’t know if he would ever be able to speak the words aloud. 

“What else did you dream—back then?” she asked, lips close to his ear.

“I was stupid. Thought I wanted a lot of things.” He slapped a hand over his eyes, pressing hard until little white sunbursts popped behind his closed lids. He  _ was  _ stupid. Stupid for ever buying the  _ bullshit  _ life had sold him, for believing the lies crammed down his throat since infancy. There was no going back, no sussing out what was ultimately  _ pointless.  _

And yet, Miriam persisted. 

“Like what?”

And he found himself wanting to answer. 

“Oh my  _ God,  _ woman,” he growled, pushing her away and bolting upright. His world went completely silent, not even hearing the sound of breathing. 

Dragging his hand away, he saw Miriam sprawled out on the bed. She looked hurt, but not physically. Her eyes pulled at him in a way he didn’t know how to explain. He felt himself involuntarily soften. 

“I… wanted a full house.” Against his will, his hand wandered to her stomach, fingers touching just above her navel. “Maybe one or two of  _ those,”  _ he murmured, thinking of what it would be like to watch her belly grow. “Quiet. Something… simple.” 

Of the few things he remembered—and  _ hated  _ himself for— _ was _ wanting that life. The life of a family man. Having someone who wanted him— _ all  _ of him. Someone like Miriam. Searching for a kind of love and happiness that didn’t exist outside of stories and lies. It was never something he was cut out for, never something he ever saw work in his own life. Dysfunction was bred into him. Violence and cruelty, too. 

Still. That didn’t stop him from thinking about what could’ve happened if something, just  _ one thing  _ had gone differently, where he would be—who he’d be with. If he would have still found an early grave. 

Of course, it was the thought of death that brought that elusive grip on the truth back to him. It dawned on him what he had said, what it meant. He felt more disgust and hatred for himself than he ever felt directed at anyone—not even the world. Had he not murdered all those futures for himself with his bare hands, doused them in gasoline and watched them burn? 

Miriam’s fingers traced over his knuckles before threading through his. 

_ “What are you afraid of, J?”  _

Lightning struck his heart. What had he invited, what had he done? 

The Joker realized he was wrong. He didn’t hate himself, he hated _her. She did this._ _She made him like this_. _She made him weak._

_ She ruins—  _

He didn’t answer her this time. Taking his hand away, he raised himself to straddle her waist. She had a gentle smile on her face, didn’t look afraid—not even after everything he had done. She  _ should  _ have been afraid. Why did it make his ribs contract until he thought they might break? 

His fingers brushed across her cheekbone, caressed her hair. Leaning down, he kissed her once. It lasted longer than he wanted it to, and his thumb stroked her jaw. He didn't want to pull away, couldn’t even find it in himself to smile. 

“I’m afraid of you,” he whispered. 

Both hands found her throat and squeezed. Miriam didn’t resist, even as his thumbs dug into her trachea. She was still smiling at him; fear never found her. He needed her to die. He needed the dream to die. He thought he killed this part of himself a long time ago, but, like Lazarus, he needed to put it down a second time. No miracle would change who he was. Time couldn’t take back what he’d already done, and he didn’t want it to. 

The smile on her face never disappeared, even as her brown skin went ashen and she finally gasped for air. Her hands went to his, but it wasn't to make him stop. They pressed on his; she was encouraging him, guiding him to finish the task. 

His arms shook. Her small chest heaved.

Her smile turned sweet and hands finally went slack, thumb brushing across the back of his hand as her eyes closed, and he felt his grip involuntarily release as she took her last breath.

_ Coward.  _

He barely took notice of how the house changed—how it rotted and decayed, taking the photos and pretty wallpaper with it, eating away at the walls, the floors soggy with mould, breathing in death and dying earth in the form of thick spores. 

His world was back to what it always should have been. Ugly. Scarred and decomposing. Unwanted and liable to kill. 

Why didn’t he feel better? 

Just like before, when their world had crashed around them as they waited to die, their blood fusing together in some kind of unholy union, he wanted both. He wanted his fun, to feel something he thought had died, and then kill her for ever making it happen. Where he had failed in reality, he had now achieved it in dreams. He finally won—practiced for the real thing, rectified his mistake. 

Didn’t he? 

Still leaning over her, one would not be able to distinguish what he was doing—if he was still wringing the life from or embracing Miriam. He didn’t know which it was, either. Something in his chest burned, travelling from his rotten heart to sit behind his eyes. His fingers ran through her hair, patting it smooth and brushing it away from her cheeks stained with tears that weren’t hers. 

He didn’t feel better. Not at all. Knowing that it would always feel like this, he couldn’t even find it in him to smile, to summon a laugh. 

“Merry Christmas to me,” he whispered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for reading! All kudos and reviews are always welcome and so greatly appreciated. I'm so happy to have readers like all of you and hope you have a wonderful holiday, however you spend it ❤. 
> 
> A special thank you and shout-out to J1994 for her suggestions! (And another round of thanks to everyone who gave some input as to what they'd like to see - y'all are the best ❤.)
> 
> Happy Holidays and stay safe out there! I'll be back with _Desolation_ next weekend :).


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